Dead Horsemeat (17 page)

The search progresses without incident and without yielding anything of interest. Thirard lives alone in a comfortable house whose rustic style has been fairly well preserved, but without much personality. Nothing to report. Lavorel’s bored.

Up to the office, which is in the converted attic. A huge bay dormer window has been put in the roof, and in front of it, stretching the entire length of the room, is a table. When he works there, Thirard has an unrestricted view of his stables. On the table is a computer, diskette boxes, and underneath, columns of drawers. Obsessive tidiness, not a scrap of paper or a pen lying around, not a speck of dust. While Lavorel opens drawers, Thirard sits down in a fauve leather armchair in a corner, and doesn’t say a word. He waits, without impatience, and seems barely interested. Lavorel soon finds the records of his horse dealings. Kept with extraordinary meticulousness. Names of the horses, identification numbers, amounts, names of buyers consortia and vendors. Bank statements showing commissions paid and transfers, most of them to banks in Luxembourg. Same for the administration of his stables. Salaries, social security contributions, the horses’ upkeep, VAT calculations. Everything seems to be accounted for down to the last cent. There are also the insurance policies for the horses, with Pama, and the payments of the premiums. They all died one or two months before their insurance policy expired, what organisation… and the compensation paid out by Pama.
Watertight in the event of a tax inspection, and Thirard above suspicion. As long as one is unaware that part of his horse dealing is quite purely and simply fictitious. A glance at Thirard. Touching, in a way, this obsessive neatness and his determination to be above board. What would Le Dem say? Trying to convince himself that Thirard is truly, and solely, a major horse dealer? The magistrate orders some of the files to be taken away in boxes.

Lavorel carries on searching. Standing against the back wall is a big, heavy iron cupboard with a sophisticated lock system.

‘It’s open,’ says Thirard.

So it is. At the back are five empty post sacks. And a sixth, tied up with a simple piece of string, which Lavorel undoes: stuffed with banknotes, small denominations of lire and dollars. On the outward journey, cocaine, on the return, money to launder. Put it through the bureaux de change leaving no evidence, then the half-laundered cash is paid into the various bank accounts without any difficulty. In this business, aren’t the majority of payments in cash? It will be harder to establish whether some of the cash has stayed in France, and what it has been used for, or whether everything has gone back to the Italian partners. Need to dig further. Thirard hasn’t moved a muscle. The sack of notes and the empty bags join the accounts files in the boxes to be taken away.

There’s a buzz of excitement at the Drugs Squad headquarters. The vet, Thirard and the Dragovich cousins have been taken into different offices. Daquin, Romero and Le Dem, reeking of diesel, mud and blood have gone to get changed. On their return, council of war in Daquin’s office.

‘Let’s try to separate out the problems and define our objectives. First of all, the Italian ramifications. The three men stopped driving the horse lorry are known to the Milan police: some departments are keeping them under surveillance while others are protecting them. For the time being, we’ll hold them. But without any hope of getting them to talk. We have nothing to bargain with. And it’s a waste of energy and time trying to beat anything out of them. I’m absolutely convinced that Ballestrino is in this up to his ears. But I don’t know what our Italian friends are going to decide.’ A pause. ‘Milan, capital of the north. The reputations of a fair sprinkling of Italy’s financial elite are likely to be tarnished. Fancy a trip to Italy, Lavorel?’

‘If you don’t mind, chief, I think I’ve got plenty to keep me busy here.’

‘Here. In Paris.’ Groan. ‘Too true. It’s a bit soon to start crowing, we’ve still got a long way to go. At least we now have a proper motive for the Moulin and Berger’s murders. They must have got wind of the Italian trafficking connection. And it’s very likely that the hit men who murdered them came from abroad and have probably already gone back. Almost impossible to prove.’ A pause. ‘Barring a miracle, we can hardly expect Aubert or Thirard to grass on their bosses. Too dangerous for them. Depressed?’

‘Not yet.’ Romero smiles. ‘Go on chief, you’re on great form.’

‘So initially, we’re going not going to aim too high. We’ll see about Perrot and Pama later. Lavorel and Le Dem, you handle Thirard. Do what you can. The new boys can take care of the Dragoviches. Question them separately, make up any old excuse to justify their arrest, and whatever you do, don’t mention Rouma’s murder. I only want to know how they operate, how they organise their teams, and about their movements over the last month. With a bit of luck, one of them will be in the clear the day of the murder, and that will help us focus. Romero and I will deal with the vet.’

Thirard is sitting in a chair, his elbows on a table, in a tiny, windowless office, impeccably elegant as always and apparently unruffled. When Le Dem enters the room, slightly ill-at-ease, and comes and sits down opposite him, Thirard’s eyes flicker.

‘How did the cops manage to recruit such an excellent groom?

Le Dem smiles. ‘I still do have a grandfather who bred draught horses.’ A silence. ‘But in my neck of the woods, it’s hard to find work.’ Another silence. ‘My chief wants you to take the rap.’

‘I think he’ll succeed.’

‘Sure. Unless I can help you.’

‘Listen, Le Dem. My father was a jockey. The first time a trainer asked him to restrain his horse, he refused, and the next day he had a broken leg. After that, he did as he was told. Three years later, he lost his licence, because he’d taken part in a race that had been rigged. And he ended up broke, as stables manager for the trainer who’d fixed the race. I made the decision to get out of the racing world, to get away from the thugs. I easily found people to lend me money to get started, and I found out a little
later, when one of my horses had all four legs broken in transit, that they were friends of friends of my father’s. The day you turned up at my place, one of my stables had just burned down. Very delicate things, stables.’ (Le Dem had a flashback of Thirard’s grim face and heavy green Wellington boots pacing among the charred ruins.
I so wish I could believe him
…) ‘Your chief can do what he likes, but don’t expect me to cooperate, whatever happens.’

Romero takes down Aubert’s particulars…

‘Profession?’

‘Veterinary surgeon.’

‘Add “struck off”,’ says Daquin. ‘A veterinary surgeon who’s been struck off. Which is a pity. I’ve read your book on horse doping, it’s a clever approach.’

Embittered smile, silence. A bit cack-handed, this superintendent. Not exactly subtle. So much the better for me.

Aubert’s too sure of himself. He’s within my grasp. End of the observation phase. Now, the chase is really on.

Aubert has a ready-made story. He went to Medellín two years ago on behalf of a French owner who wanted to import Colombian horses to set up a breeding operation in France. He was entertained by Don Fabio Ochoa himself, at his splendid stud farm. They signed a deal, and he came back with two mares and a stallion… and some contacts with the sons who invited him to set up a business, through one of their right-hand men, a certain Martínez, who’s now gone back to Colombia…

A well-honed story, perhaps even partially true. Let it go.

‘I thought the Ochoa family never worked with cocaine addicts.’

He raises an eyebrow.

‘I’m not.’

Daquin gives him a sharp look. ‘I thought the issue came up when you were struck off.’

‘What if it did.’ Smile. ‘OK, I do occasionally snort. Do you think that makes my case worse?’

‘Probably not. We’ll come back to that later. Go on.’

Transitex, a detailed description of the operations, exoneration of the secretary and drivers… Daquin doesn’t learn anything new.

‘What about Thirard?’

‘I don’t know him. Martínez gave me the address I was to deliver to, and I didn’t attempt to break the confidentiality.’

‘But Thirard knows you. Let’s go back to Transitex. What did you do in the lab?’

‘I identified the boxes of offal and the carcases in which the powder was hidden, sometimes the mark had been obliterated. Then I supervised the loading into the lorry, and the documents. To make sure nothing went astray.’

‘Of course. So you didn’t touch the goods?’ Silence. ‘How come we found traces of powder in your lab this morning?’

‘When the packaging’s damaged, it has to be re-done.’

‘And then for a coke user there’s a strong temptation to dip into the goods.’

‘I’m not suicidal.’

‘Probably not, but perhaps you’re too sure of yourself. As long as you shield your partners, as you’re doing right now, everything’s fine. They’ll hire you a lawyer, look after your family, put your money in a safe place. Four or five years inside, and then you’re free. But if they find out you’ve siphoned off some of the goods for your own use, how do you think they’ll react?’

‘Nobody will believe a word of what is obviously a police fabrication.’

Berry knocks at the door, enters and places a sheet of paper in front of Romero. The Dragoviches always work in pairs. Georges with Milon, and Boromir with Pierre. On the Monday of the murder, Boromir went to the dentist’s in the morning.

‘The Dragoviches have talked,’ announces Romero, pushing the paper under Daquin’s nose. ‘They’ve confessed to Rouma’s murder.’

‘A farrier called Rouma.’ Silence. ‘Unluckily for them, there were witnesses. And Daquin gives a detailed account of the murder.

‘When Georges and Milon realised they were in a tight spot, they admitted you had ordered the killing, for a contract of 50,000 francs,’ adds Romero. ‘What do you have to say about that?’

‘I categorically deny it. Never heard of this Rouma, nor of his murder.’

‘Think hard.’

Romero nudges a file towards Aubert, the new boys surveillance report, with all identifying features and signatures removed.

‘Open it.’

Aubert opens it. A shock. Photos of his wife, in the street, in the doorway of their building, the children at school, in the park. Detailed schedules… times, journeys.

‘I confiscated this report last night from Thirard’s,’ Romero continues. ‘You can see where this is leading?’

‘Not exactly, no.’

‘The Mafia never works with anyone without taking precautions. Do I need to refresh your memory with a few recent stories?’

‘No need.’

‘So, make your mind up, Monsieur Aubert,’ says Daquin. ‘Either you admit to paying the Dragoviches 50,000 to kill Rouma and we accept your version of the motives behind it – your sentence will be a bit longer, but you’ll still have your support, your money and your family – or you deny it. In which case, we will try and prove that you had Rouma killed because you were supplying him with cocaine stolen from the Colombians, and it had become dangerous. You know that we have solid evidence to back this up. And you and your family will be wiped out.’

There’s a lengthy silence. Daquin rocks slowly in his armchair and Romero doodles on a blank sheet of paper. Then Aubert says in a low voice: ‘I had Rouma killed.’

Not really that tough, but entertaining all the same.

‘You know, Aubert, if it hadn’t been for the murder, we’d never have been able to trace you.’

The Dragovich cousins’ case is soon resolved. Aubert confesses, bank transfer, coshes and duplicate keys to the Mercedes found at their home, all that remains is for Le Dem formally to identify Georges and Milon without any qualms, and the case is closed.

When Daquin walks out onto the embankment, it’s dark. He hadn’t seen night fall, it is nearly 10 p.m.. On the go for thirty-eight hours, and a few very tense moments. And some very enjoyable ones. Exhausted, and a feeling of being profoundly alive. Walk home to Avenue Jean-Moulin via Montparnasse to experience the city at night, and sleep for at least twelve hours without a break.

Deluc walks into Le Chambellan at around 10 p.m. and makes his way over to a small, secluded table at the back of the restaurant where Perrot is calmly waiting for him drinking whisky and smoking a cigar. In a foul
mood, Deluc sits down stiffly. Perrot signals to the head waiter to serve him.

‘I’ve left my wife to go on her own to a dinner hosted by the President of the Assembly, at the Hôtel de Lassay, one of the best tables in Paris.’ Little smile. ‘I hope you haven’t ruined my evening for nothing.’ The full gamut of condescending nuances to betray slight annoyance.

‘You won’t be disappointed.’

Perrot, grave, meticulously fills the glasses with red wine from a carafe.

‘What’s this about?’

‘You know Pierre Aubert, the vet?’

‘Of course. I’ve had dinner with him a couple of times here.’

They start eating.

‘He was arrested this morning for cocaine trafficking.’

Deluc raises his eyebrows. Cocaine. Nicolas, Annick, and then a recollection, the phone call from the superintendent of the 16
^th
arrondissement, your son… Nothing had come of it. A little thrill of pride. There’s one law for the rich and powerful and another for everyone else. Not accountable to anyone, impunity guaranteed, you get used to it. Back to Perrot.

‘What have Aubert’s filthy habits got to do with me?’

‘You weren’t listening to me. Aubert isn’t a cocaine user. At least, not only. He’s a dealer.’ He adds, seeing Deluc’s puzzled expression. ‘A serious dealer. His network stretches from Colombia to Italy, via Paris.’

A dealer, that highly respectable man whose company is rather enjoyable… Deluc has a feeling there’s more to come. He snaps:

‘The police are doing their job.’

‘Absolutely, and I’ve nothing to say about that. Aubert’s going to spend a few years inside. I’ll take care of his family, and his lawyers.’

‘A loyal friend.’ Ironic half smile. ‘Admirable. But aren’t you afraid of being compromised?’